After the initial greeting and pleasantries were exchanged, we retired to a wooden picnic table, Sam lit up a smoke, I pressed record on my little machine and we began to talk.
It's a pleasant enough image, but not one to grab your attention too much, apart from the fact that you're looking at it upside down.
Are you single and sexually frustrated? Yes? Then here's your plan.
I'm certainly not saying that all Northerners are good and Southerners are bad but I will say that there's a certain instant upfront quality of connection between Northern people and Scots that certainly doesn't translate to the South.
There are undoubtedly moments of genius on it. And, more disturbingly, there's Paul Weller on it too, which is a bit like Phil Collins playing on Another Green Day, or Robert Palmer playing on Remain in Light – not right somehow.
Still in their seeming quirkiness there is method and a great pop song writer literally taking the piss out of all other exponents of this art-school, post-punk squared genre (I wonder I can say that).
It's not everyday you can review the soundtrack album to a 1970 Czech New Wave film that recounts the dreams and hallucinations of a teenage girl as she experiences her first period and it's not an opportunity I'm going to pass up now.
It's strange hearing the sense of raw energy that informs the music, an energy that could limit as well as inspire, for, as with nearly all records of this period, you do feel that the creation of a sound rather than the song-writing is the driving force…
There's some menace to Sydanten Ahmija and at times it almost recalls the kind of background jazz you might expect to find in a French bar. But only if you're on a bad trip.
it sounds as if (by a wonderful mischance) The Pretty Things had been asked to write the music for (terrible musical) Hair. It's utterly classic stuff.
We have plane hijackings, riots with farmers, and bassists escaping in the n.u.d.e.
...it really is as if we are stuck in an enchanted farm on a lonely moor and these sounds are coming out of the walls to disturb us…
Blessed Brambles, the album opener, mutates from a hesitant opening into a gloriously poppy tune with some rather strange lyrics. At least I think they sing about kissing the boys that pee into the mud.
...a tinny, dreadfully unholy mix of standard Scottish twee pop, Paradieswarts-period Amon Duul and Fairport – a Fairport if they dropped all the medieval stuff and sung about shoes and make up.
I have been reading the Julian Cope biography ‘Head On' recently and there is a bit in the book where he says ‘He hates music that is made to impress people' I've never heard any of his records but I couldn't agree more.
I just can't describe the whole of this album with the reverence it deserves; it's too much of a headfuck
Vocalist Orlando Weeks is practically bouncing off the walls (and his band mates) with excitement and the entire performance has a giddy feel to it
It's pleasant, eager to please stuff for sure, but the songs work in a way that doesn't make you wish the sentiment redolent in, say, Macca-styled work-outs as Cake Parade would burn and writhe in hell forever
...a song called Libraries isn't going to be the pagan wig out you were, in a fit of perversity, hoping for now is it?
Incredibly the primal howls on Derdang Derdang didn't satisfy Sam Windett or Mark Cleveland enough. During the Derdang Derdang recording they decided to find the time to build a studio in a barn and bash out this sonic Golem